Caipirinhas
The man of my dreams asked me to move there with him, and who the hell says no to that . . .
Pros for Staying in Rome
Me
There were other reasons, sure. But what it all boiled down to was creating a new life for myself that would be complemented by a man, but not defined by one.
This is what I told myself the entire time Marcello was house hunting in Rio de Janeiro, Skyping with me, and showing me pictures of homes overlooking the ocean and the Christ the Redeemer statue in the background, blessing the city and all those lucky enough to live there.
This last part was uttered by a certain Roman.
And I had to tell myself this again when the nights came, and I was lonely and missing him in my bed. And the mornings, when I was missing him with my coffee.
But other than that, I was getting along. Classes were wonderful, work was great, I was meeting some new friends and establishing a little circle of my own.
God, I missed him saying my name, stretching it out while he stretched above me, thrusting low and deep and telling me how much he needed me, how much he loved me . . .
I considered printing up my Rome Pro list and having it laminated for exactly these moments.
For all the guilt he was giving me, which was a lot, Marcello was being as supportive as he could be with my decision to stay in Rome. He was proud of his testa dura (which I found out through Google meant, a hard head) and said we would figure everything out even if I was stubborn. That he and I were in it for the “far run” and he could see us “walking off into the horizon as the sun was setting.”
Oh, God, it was torture. And the closer it got to the date he was leaving for good, the worse it got. We spent every minute we could together, saving up memories for when we wouldn’t be together.
I was trying like hell to keep things light and bright and easy breezy, but it was so hard to do sometimes. But I didn’t want him to leave sad.
So I decided to throw him a party.
WHENEVER I WAS NERVOUS about a fancy party in Boston, I pregamed it with my parents in the sunset lounge of the club. A glass of wine or a shot of Jack with my dad, and things didn’t seem so bleak.
But I couldn’t get sloshed tonight, no matter how much I thought it would make Marcello’s going-away party more bearable. I’d save the heavy liquor and tears for after his flight left to Buenos Aires.
I smoothed my dress, loving the feeling of the linen beneath my hands. He loved this dress, since I had worn it to the giant family dinner in Pienza. He lightly touched the linen cutouts before he told me that he loved me.
“Happy thoughts, happy thoughts,” I chanted, trying to abate the tears. I didn’t have time for another full face of makeup.
The firm had arranged for a private dining experience outside the Pantheon. They’d consulted there a few years ago and held a favor that they were cashing in tonight.
We had a plan. After he got settled, I’d join him for a long weekend whenever I could. He’d come to Rome whenever he could. We would make this work.
“Avery, it’s here!” Daisy called out from the living room.
Marcello, as the guest of honor, was going to be late. Since it was about him, I didn’t feel right walking in on his arm, so Daisy and I were heading over together.
What I didn’t like was that I hadn’t seen him all day. He’d begged off meeting for lunch because he had to go into the office for last-minute work. With the sand slipping through that damn hourglass, I wanted to get in as much time with him as possible.
“You’re going to stop traffic in that outfit, honey,” Daisy said as I walked out of the bedroom. She was probably sensing that I needed the extra oomph. “The lipstick? Killer with a capital K. You’re getting some great good-bye sex.”
I smiled and checked my hair in the hall mirror. Corkscrew curls shooting out wherever they felt like it, which Marcello loved. My makeup was light, but my lips were painted red.
“I’m counting on it,” I said, grabbing a bloodred shawl from the couch, along with my clutch.
After we arrived, we snacked on some delectable appetizers, marveling at how they had transformed the stone courtyard of the Pantheon into a stunning party venue.
Ten gorgeous wooden farm tables were laid out around the fountain, benches tucked up beneath them. Above were sheer linen umbrellas spaced out just enough that they didn’t block the navy-blue, star-speckled sky.
But the real gem was the Pantheon. You could see the majestic building from every angle and every table. Guests milled about talking to their coworkers—about children and what projects they were working on now—but their eyes always flitted back to the statuesque columns or the sweeping open doors, where you could see the moonlight from the oculus shining on the floor.
Then Marcello arrived, looking unstoppably fuckable. He wore the hell out of his well-tailored khaki pants and white oxford shirt. With his sleeves rolled to the elbow, he was perfect for the late Italian summer weather.
He shook hands and kissed where he had to, but his eyes never left mine. He’d move on to another person to speak with, and glance my way and wink. We circled each other in a cat-and-mouse game that nobody knew about but us.
Except for Daisy, who was bursting with excitement. “With all the sparks flying between you two and all of the flammable liquid, this part of town is going up in flames tonight. Tone it down!” Daisy teased, before making her way up to the head table.
She’d be introducing Marcello, who’d been fretting all week about what to say, saying good-bye to everyone he worked with.
For now, I reminded myself. Saying good-bye for now.
He whispered something to Daisy, and her face lit up in a broad smile. She searched the small crowd for me, then picked up a knife and clinked on her glass to get everyone’s attention.
I moved to take an empty seat toward the back, in case I broke out into hysterical sobs and needed to make a quick escape to the ladies’ room in one of the nearby restaurants.
“Buona sera, everyone,” Daisy started. “I’d like to thank you all for coming here tonight to say arrivederci to Marcello.”
I tuned her out, staring at the man she was praising. I loved hearing that he was universally respected by his peers, but I loved watching him more. He laughed at her little jokes, and feigned hurt when she hit below the belt.
But something was amiss. Though he was smiling at all the right places and laughing where needed, his eyes were on me. He hadn’t taken them off me for more than a few seconds at a time all night, but now I felt like he was trying to convey something.
When it was his turn to speak, he simply thanked everyone for coming before introducing his second in command, Federico. Who would explain everything . . . wait, what?
The confused audience started slowly clapping and whispering as Marcello stalked through the tables until he stopped at mine.
“What’s going on?” I said, scooting over so he could sit beside me on the bench.
“Weren’t you listening?” he asked, brushing a wayward curl from my forehead. “Tesoro, tell me you heard that.”
I smiled awkwardly and shrugged. “It was hard to pay attention when you look so damn good. You need to get dressed up more often; it’s killing me.”
He laughed, loud enough that Federico stopped talking to shake his head, saying, “And now we know why he’s staying.”
Dozens of heads turned toward us, smiling and tilting to show they were happy. But why?
“Oh my God—did he say you’re staying?” I blurted loudly, then slapped my hand over my mouth.
He gently pulled my hand away. “Please do not smudge those lips. Not until later. And yes, I am staying. We are staying here.”
This time when the tears threatened to fall, I let them; elated tears could ruin my makeup with abandon.
“How? Why? What happened?” I pulled him into a hug so tight that I pulled him off the seat and practically into my lap.
“Tesoro,
easy.” He gasped, pulling my arms from around his neck. “You happened.”
“But we had a plan. You were going to go and—”
“I talked to my boss today, and I told him that now is just not a good time to go. Incredible opportunity of course, and I thank him for this, but that I could not leave Italy at the moment. I’m settled here, and we need you settled here. We’ve got plenty of time for an adventure later on.”
“But this was your big chance!” Wait, why the hell was I arguing?
“It is not as important as my second chance with you.”
I promptly sat on his lap, wrapped my arms around him, then laid a red lipsticky kiss on each cheek and solidly on his mouth.
“There aren’t enough words in all the world to thank you for staying here. For me.”
“For us,” he corrected—and kissed the rest of my lipstick away.
* * *
“ONCE A MONTH, I want to do something super touristy,” I said, moving closer to Marcello as we strolled through town.
We’d left the party deliriously happy, hand in hand, and now he was steering us toward a part of town that I hadn’t yet ventured to.
In Rome, everything was an adventure. I could live here for twenty years and never see everything. There was too much history, too much art, too much life to see. And how exciting to get to explore everything with him by my side.
We had a future to look forward to. Together, on equal footing, following our individual dreams as a team. I couldn’t possibly have imagined a better life for myself.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, kissing the top of my head gently.
“When to have dessert,” I teased, slipping my hand beneath the back of his shirt. His skin was cool at first before heating up under my palm.
“Avery, you just had cannoli. And crème brûlée—”
“And half of your tiramisu.” I laughed at his surprised face. “Hey, mister, you were leaving for Brazil! I was eating my feelings.”
He stopped, tipping his head quizzically to the side. “I do not understand.”
“Never mind. I don’t want to talk about anyone leaving anymore—unless it’s us leaving and going to see your parents, my parents, or Daisy on whatever place she’s off to next.”
“That’s a deal.”
“So about dessert,” I purred, pulling him into an alley just outside an ice cream shop. “I need some sweetness here first, then inside.”
“Insatiable girl,” he said, leaning down to kiss me up against the bricks.
“And you love me.” I sighed as he scattered little kisses along my neck, making me squeal a little. I crossed my arms around the back of his neck, watching the moonlight play along my fingertips.
“That I do, tesoro. That, I do.”
“Mmm, you crazy Roman.”
* * *
WITH A SCOOP OF PISTACHIO gelato for me and two scoops of coffee for Marcello, we joined the crush of tourists on the street. The sea of people and their cameras were all moving toward the same area.
“Where exactly are we?” I slipped a spoonful of gelato into my mouth. The street was absurdly crowded; people blocked the tourist signs and the ceramic plates on the buildings.
I glanced over to see him watching me intently, his eyes burning before he dipped down to kiss me again. Would we ever get enough of each other? I hoped not. I sincerely hoped that we would always be in that fevered state of love.
We drifted along with the crowd, not minding the slow pace or the constant bumping. If anything, we enjoyed being pushed closer together. When we finally reached the end of the street he turned, looking serious.
“This is touristy,” he began, stopping just before the main line of the crowd. Whatever was around the corner was a huge attraction. “But I saw your list of places—”
“Oh my God, is it the Clooney?” I jumped up and down to see over the crowd, the motion making my pistachio gelato slop out of the cup. “Damn it!” With a big blob of green on my pretty white dress, I stood on tiptoes, trying in vain to see what was ahead.
He laughed. “You are ridiculous. Enough with that man.” After tossing our cups into a recycling bin, he pulled a napkin from his pocket and cleaned my dress, dabbing the pistachio drips away from the linen. I let him; he needed to be able to take care of me from time to time. And from time to time, I wanted him to.
He threw away the napkins, then made me promise two things.
“Take what is in my hand with no questions, and close your eyes.”
“Okay. . .” I said, closing my eyes and holding out my hand.
He took my hand, kissed my palm, and then my wrist. And then he lightly kissed up my arm a dozen more times before he put something in my hand and stepped away.
“You do that and then expect me to function?” I said as he pushed me gently forward.
I opened my eyes only slightly, trying to see where he was leading me. I could tell that the crowd was parting a bit to let us through.
“Once I realized that I couldn’t leave you, I thought about bringing you here,” he whispered into my ear. “And I see you peeking.” He slipped his hand over my eyes.
“So not fair.” I laughed, enjoying the feeling of him behind me, guiding me.
The locals and tourists who surrounded us were whispering in Italian, French, Chinese, German, and I was getting desperate to see where we were.
“You are shaking,” he said, rubbing his hands over my bare arms. “Cold?”
“I’m excited.”
“We’re almost there.”
I heard trickling water. We must be near a fountain, but which one? They were in nearly every piazza: Tritone, Navona, Barberini, the one we just left at the Pantheon. To see the icon by the light of day was impressive, but at night, it was magnificent.
Marcello stopped, lifted his hand away, but I squeezed, holding on to it and smiling at him.
We were at the fountain. The Trevi Fountain, possibly the most famous in all of Rome.
It was everything I thought it would be. Intricate carvings, statues, and cornice pieces adorned the iconic structure, and I couldn’t pull my eyes away from it.
Until I felt him tap my hand, and I remembered he had placed something there.
I looked down, opening my hand to reveal two coins. “I love it! I used to do this at Disneyland with my parents as a kid. I toss in the coins and make a wish like Snow White?”
I plucked one from my hand and wound up, ready to hurl it into the water. He took my hand gently, shaking his head.
“Slow down, princess. This is no Disney fountain. The Trevi has history, traditions to abide by. As a man of Roma, I cannot let you mess with the tradition.”
“I love it when you sound like a professor. Teach me, Dr. Bianchi,” I purred, loving the sight of his nostrils flaring and his chest expanding.
Oh, it was going to be a very good night.
Doing his best to ignore my shameless flirting, he turned me so that he was behind me, pressed tightly against me, lined up perfectly. “With your back to the fountain, you must toss a coin with your right hand over your left shoulder,” he instructed. “If one coin goes in, that means you’ll return to Rome.”
He waited while the group of people who were listening to him—and swooning, I might add—followed his instructions. A flurry of coins sailed into the air and landed with little plops in the water.
As I held on to my coins, they waited intently for step two.
“Two coins in, and you’ll return to Roma and fall in love,” he added, dropping a kiss on my lips.
As the group tossed their second coins in, couples embraced and kissed. Some women were scribbling on papers, trying to get Marcello’s attention. He laughed, waving them off and breaking dozens of hearts.
“Now that you know the rules, it is your time.” He moved away a bit to give me room.
I made a show of pocketing the coins.
His brow furrowed, confused, he asked, “Avery, you do not want t
o—”
I silenced him with a kiss. “I don’t need a coin to bring me back to Roma. I don’t plan on leaving. And the second coin?” I teared up when I saw the expectant look in his eyes. “I already fell in love in Rome—and I’m never letting go.”
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ALICE CLAYTON worked in the cosmetics industry for more than a decade before picking up a pen (read: laptop). She enjoys gardening but not weeding, baking but not cleaning up, and finally convinced her longtime boyfriend to marry her. Now, about that Bernese Mountain dog. . . .
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NINA BOCCI is a novelist, publicist, eternal optimist, unabashed lip-gloss enthusiast, constant apologist, and a hopeless romanticist. She has too many college degrees that she’s not using and a LEGO addiction that she blames on her son.
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